Chapter 9
JEREMY
Avah insists on driving to the Johnsons, and I can’t decide if I’m insulted or relieved.
“You’ve been pacing like a caged squirrel for the past two hours,” she says, sliding behind the wheel of the golf cart Damon left for us. “Chances are you’d steer us straight into the bushes.”
“I prefer caged tiger,” I mutter.
“Do you?” She gives me a pointed look. “I call it like I see it, so sit back on that bushy tail while you obsess over your opening pitch.”
I want to argue, but I’ve rehearsed my imaginary conversation with Joel Johnson at least forty-seven times since she told me about the dinner invitation.
Not one run-through ended with me landing the deal, which frustrates me more than I care to admit.
I haven’t had to pitch a partnership since that first round of funding for my e-commerce site.
People come to me, typically groveling. I like it better that way.
The tiki torches lining the path flicker as she pulls away from the villa, causing shadows to dance across her face.
She’s wearing a sundress the color of the sunset, coral fading to gold at the hem, and her hair is loose, the blonde ends just grazing her shoulders.
The cut on her temple has faded to a thin pink line.
I prefer Avah like this, loose and somewhat undone—nearly opposite of the aloof black cat persona she displays in Colorado.
“Tell me again what Mariel said.”
Avah sighs. “Jeremy.”
“The part about wanting to meet me.”
That earns a derisive laugh. “She didn’t say she wanted to meet you. She invited us to dinner. Mostly me, I think.” The golf cart hums along the stamped concrete path, the evening air cool on my overheated skin. “After I defended your honor like a noble knight.”
“Telling her I’m not as much of an asshat as people think isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.”
“Try harder with the gratitude.”
I stare at the torchlit path ahead, my knee bouncing. “Were you rude about it?”
Avah takes her hand off the steering wheel long enough to flip me the bird.
“Yeah, bud. She invited us to dinner because I was such a raging bitch. Give me a little credit.” She guides the cart around a gentle curve.
“I’m in marketing. I know how to schmooze.
” Another long look. “Unlike some people.”
No point in denying it. I’ve built a career on lines of code and numbers that do exactly what you tell them. People are messy. They form opinions based on vibes rather than data.
I have shit vibes.
“Stop the car.”
She keeps driving.
“Avah.”
“It’s a golf cart.”
“Stop the golf cart.” My voice is tight—one part irritation, one giant part anxiety—but I force myself to add, “Please.”
The cart rolls to a stop in a pool of light. Birds chirp from the lush vegetation beyond the path, the only sound in this quiet stretch of the resort.
“I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate, but I mean them. “For insinuating you don’t know what you’re doing.”
She watches me with those blue eyes that see too much.
“This is important,” I continue. “I was beginning to think this whole trip was a waste, but—”
A flash of hurt crosses her features, there and gone in an instant, but not before I wish I could take back the words. My chest tightens. “Avah—”
“It’s fine.” Her voice is light, but her teasing tone from a moment ago has evaporated. “It’s a business trip for you. I’m the stray you picked up on the beach.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
Christ, no. But I don’t know how to explain that she’s become the only part of it that matters. That if the Johnsons flat-out turn me down, I’ll still consider these past few days a success. Because of her. It sounds unhinged even in my own head.
“I appreciate you setting up this dinner,” I say instead. “It means a lot.”
“Then stop interrogating me.”
“It’s not about you. I’m worried I’m going to fuck this up.”
It’s a pathetic admission, but Avah’s expression softens.
“Just be yourself.”
I stare at her.
“No, actually, don’t do that.” She reaches over to pat my knee with exaggerated condescension. “Be the guy you were on the boat yesterday. The one who talked about wanting to make a difference.”
I’m not sure what that means. I’m always myself. Even when myself is an awkward, uptight grown-up nerd who couldn’t make small talk if my billions depended on it.
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all any of us can do.” She puts the cart back in drive. “Now let’s charm some grieving parents before you stroke out.”
I shake my head but feel a smile tug at my lips, my nerves easing slightly. Leave it to Avah to cut through the bullshit.
The Johnsons’ villa is smaller than mine but no less elegant, with a wraparound terrace overlooking the beach.
Joel greets us at the door with an expression best described as cautiously tolerant.
Mariel is warmer, though her eyes hold the same wariness I’ve seen in every exchange I’ve managed to arrange over the past year.
They’ve already decided who I am: the tech billionaire who sees their life’s work as another notch on his acquisition belt.
I want to tell them they’re wrong, but the truth is more complicated. For years, I’ve been exactly the empty shell my sister accused me of being. Trying to change now doesn’t erase the damage I’ve already done.
Drinks are served out back, and for the first ten minutes, I’m more awkward than normal, if that’s possible. Every question feels like a gauntlet, and I want to kick myself in the nuts as I watch Joel’s face close off by degrees. I’m blowing it.
Suddenly, Avah grabs my wrist and squeezes hard.
It’s a clear message to let her take over, and desperate as I am, I’m happy to do it.
She laughs at one of Joel’s lame jokes about fancy resort food, and I watch in amazement as his shoulders visibly relax minutes into an animated discussion of Denver’s best street tacos.
Then she turns this hidden well of charm on Mariel, complimenting the gold star pendant she always wears, and following it up with a question about the design that leads Mariel into a story about their daughter’s love of astronomy.
The older woman’s face transforms as she talks about stargazing from the back porch of their cabin near Steamboat Springs and the telescope her daughter received for her twelfth birthday.
Avah just found a way to give a grieving mother permission to remember her daughter as the curious girl she was rather than a tragedy. She’s a fucking miracle.
I realize, with a jolt of surprise, that she’s also done her research on the Johnsons.
She knows about NorthStar’s community forums and the peer mentor program they launched nine months ago.
She asks Joel about the caregivers’ retreat they piloted in Steamboat last summer, and his eyes literally sparkle as he explains the challenges of scaling something so personal.
Every few minutes, she finds a way to draw me into the conversation.
“Jeremy can’t stop going on about the app integration he envisions,” she says, turning to me with an expectant look. “Tell them about your ideas for connecting patients to support staff in real-time as they begin treatment.”
It’s a bridge across the social chasm I can never seem to cross on my own. I stumble at first, but find my footing as Joel leans in with genuine interest.
By the time dinner is served, the conversation flows more easily. Joel tells a story about a mix-up at their first fundraiser, and when Mariel asks about Sloane, I manage to talk about my sister without sounding like a robot. There might be some mother-hen vibes, but no one seems to mind.
Avah catches my eye across the table, and her small nod feels like a victory.
The food is amazing, but I’m too busy watching Avah work the proverbial room to care. The sharp-tongued woman who takes me down a peg at every opportunity is naturally warm and engaging. She deploys her snarky humor like a strategy, each laugh and compliment perfect for the moment.
This is her gift, I realize. I’ve spent my career building systems that connect people through technology. She does it effortlessly. Screw the algorithm.
I’m mesmerized.
For all my success and the resources at my disposal, I’ve never been able to accomplish what she is at this moment.
But when she catches me staring and raises an eyebrow in silent question, I look away, afraid of what she might see in my gaze.
My gratitude but also my desire, which scares the piss out of me so who knows how she’d react.
As the dessert plates are cleared, Mariel glances at her watch. “I’m afraid we have to cut this short. Joel and I have an early flight tomorrow.”
“Back to Denver?” Avah asks.
“For a few weeks,” Joel confirms. “Then we’ll be heading up to the mountains to get ready for the caregiver camp.”
“We’re scouting for a permanent location,” Mariel adds. “So the families in our community feel like they’re coming home each summer.”
“You’re looking at building your own facility?” I keep my voice neutral, even as my pulse quickens. This is a step I could support.
“Looking is all we can do right now.” Joel’s mouth twists. “But we’ll figure it out eventually. The plan is to expand our in-person offerings once we have a permanent home.”
“I’m sure you’ll get there,” I assure him.
Mariel’s eyes meet mine, and I imagine her comparing the billionaire who showed up tonight with the reputation that preceded me.
“When are you two heading back?” she asks.
Avah hesitates, and I realize she’s living in the same suspended bubble as me—where the outside world doesn’t exist, and the future is a problem for later.
“A few more days,” I hear myself say. “I booked us a helicopter tour of the island tomorrow.”
Avah blinks. I didn’t tell her about the helicopter tour because I decided on it approximately three seconds ago. The concierge mentioned it earlier in my stay, and I’d filed it away as unnecessary frivolity. Priorities change. Mine have.
“That should be an adventure.” Mariel’s smile indicates she approves.
Joel rises from his chair, and I stand to shake his hand, shocked when he holds my grip a beat longer. “Call me the next time you’re in Colorado. I think we have more to discuss.”
“I will,” I say, like he hasn’t been actively avoiding meeting with me for nearly six months. “Thank you. For dinner, and for...” I trail off, unsure how to finish.
“Thank Avah,” Mariel says, her eyes warm as she turns to the woman who somehow made all this possible. “She’s remarkable.”
Fucking understatement of the century.
The walk back to the golf cart is quiet, a chorus of hidden insects loud in the darkness. I’m still processing how one simple dinner became the breakthrough I’d nearly given up hope of getting.
Because of Avah.
“I’ll drive,” I say when we reach the cart, my voice gravelly.
She slides into the passenger seat without argument or side-eye, and tips her head to watch the stars scattered across the tropical sky.
I guide us along the path slowly, in no rush to end this strange and wonderful night.
“Thank you,” I say finally. “What you did back there—”
“I told you I’m a good schmoozer. Easy-peasy.”
Moonlight catches the delicate line of her jaw. “You made them see me differently.”
“I helped them see the real you, not the dickwad cosplay act.”
“You thought I was a dickwad.”
“I might have been wrong.” She says it simply, without her usual edge. “It happens occasionally.”
“Occasionally?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
The villa comes into view, and I pull the cart to a stop near the front path. She climbs out slowly, and I wonder if she’s as reluctant for this night to end as I am.
I try to remember the last time I had someone besides Sloane in my corner without them being paid to be there. Not Raina, the assistant who manages my schedule, or the lawyers and accountants and advisors who take their cut.
The women I date want access to my world—the private jets, exclusive events, and the lifestyle my bank accounts provide. I’m a means to an end, never the end itself, and I thought that was fine because I appreciate a straightforward transaction.
Avah defended me to a stranger on a beach without knowing it would matter, then spent her evening making me look good to people she’ll never see again. She’s done more for me in a few days than anyone has in years.
My body hums with a longing that feels almost foreign. I want to be worthy of the fierce loyalty she showed tonight. I want other things that I have no right to when it comes to this woman, and reach for her hand without thinking.
Her fingers curl around mine as she turns to face me.
“Avah.”
Her name is all I can manage before leaning in to claim her lips, my hands cradling her face like she might shatter. Or maybe that’s me, as a need deeper than I knew I was capable of rises inside me.
She kisses me back with the same level of passion. For one perfect moment, her lips part beneath mine, and her hands fist in my shirt. She tastes like the mocktail she had at dinner, along with something sweeter I’m not sure I’ll ever stop craving.
Then she pulls away, one hand lifting to cover her mouth, eyes wide with what I can only describe as horror.
Fuck me.
“Avah—”
She shakes her head, then disappears into the villa before I can offer an apology.
The door clicks shut behind her, and I just stand here while my heart pounds, my lips still tingling from a kiss that feels seared into my soul.
Idiot.
The word echoes in my head, followed by a dozen worse ones.
A woman does one nice thing for me, and I accost her as a thank you.
She’s barely out of an abusive relationship, and I act like I have some right to touch her.
As if the kindness she showed tonight was anything other than a debt repaid for the beach rescue.
Apparently, I am the asshat everyone believes me to be.
Good to know.